


literary sexts

by rahelawriter



Category: Doki Doki Literature Club! (Visual Novel), Final Fantasy XIV, Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Bad Puns, Character Study, Circuit Sex, Circuit Touching, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fade to Black, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, Happy Ending, Holding Hands, Homecoming, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kissing, Lesbian Sex, Making Love, Making Out, Massage, Mechanics, Mutual Masturbation, Neck Kissing, Non-Penetrative Sex, Other, Overstimulation, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Past Child Abuse, Porn with Feelings, Post-Battle, Post-Battle Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Ending, Program Sex, Prose Poem, Rating Depends on Chapter, Reader-Insert, References to Depression, Romance, Scars, Scissoring, Self-Hatred, Smut, Tribadism, Undressing, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wet & Messy, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-04-18 15:33:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14216259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahelawriter/pseuds/rahelawriter
Summary: A series of drabbles (sometimes erotic, sometimes not) across multiple different pairings and fandoms inspired by pieces from Amanda Oaks & Caitlyn Siehl's collection of short poems called 'Literary Sexts.'(Usually NSFW but ratings will vary depending on the chapter)





	1. Your Hands (Cid Garlond + Female Warrior of Light; Explicit NSFW)

_You’re not one for poetry or sentimentality, so I’ll just say that I’ve dreamt of being the motor oil trapped in the grooves of your weathered hands. **-Darcy Vines** _

 

The sharp and clear clattering of metal on a stone floor wakes you from your shallow slumber. Through bleary eyes you curse yourself for dozing off when you’d meant to only rest your head, you hadn’t even turned off the light. Climbing off the bed and adjusting your nightgown so no parts of you are falling out, you rub your eyelids as you tiptoe out to the workshop to investigate the noise.

And just as expected, there he is, hard at work in his own little world. Your smile is full of fondness and love as you watch him in his element. The sweat on his skin makes him shimmer in the low light, and with no jacket on you see his biceps flexing in all their glory as his deft hands show no sign of stopping. He turns a screwdriver, twists a wrench, his concentration never breaking, his soft breaths and the hard clinks of machinery mingling together as echos against the silent workshop walls.

But as tirelessly as he works, you know why it is that he does so. Because he can’t forgive himself. So you have to do it for him.

Except you have to be clever about it; nothing you can say aloud will get him to believe you. So you make your way to him, kneel beside him, and startle him with a featherlight touch on his nape. Despite looking a total mess, with his windswept snowy locks askew, silver beard dripping with sweat, soaked shirt and calloused hands and hairy arms stained in ceruleum blue, he still looks like himself. It wouldn’t be him without those rough edges; world-weary and brash sometimes, but still earnest and determined.

But you know that if it were up to him, he’d work until the debt he owed to the world was repaid. As if every hour spent working to better the world would grant peace to a soul that had been given an untimely end by his wartime inventions and blind innovations.

But you know that no one person should carry such burdens. And he knows deep down that it would never be enough. He could work himself to the bone for all eternity and he would still never forgive himself. So you do it for him. You ask him to rest, to come to bed. You take his hand, hugging it to your chest before raising it to your cheek and leaning your cheek into his palm.

The dried ceruleum that seeped into the grooves of his hands stained them blue and gave them that bitter metallic odor. But you kiss his palm anyway and nuzzle your cheek into it. You smile, because you’ve seen these hands do nothing but wonders, and treating them with this kind of tenderness is one of the best ways of convincing him that hey, maybe these hands really have wrought some good.

Finally he smiles back at you, and uses his free hand to pull you into one of those embraces that you love so much, the kind strong enough to squeeze the wind out of you. And that often led to him scooping you up into his powerful arms and yes— your eyes are closed but one arm is tightly around your shoulders and the other is hooked under your knees, this is one of those times. Your quest is succeeded, you’re both going to bed.

And then you chance to glance up at his face, and seeing the smirk on his face makes your heart skip a beat. He’s got even better plans in mind.

He drops you on the bed, you’re on your back with him leaning over you, the golden yellow overhead light casting his body in shadow; the smell of ceruleum is overpowering, but it’s the scent of _him_. You catch him licking his lips at the sight of you prone and you give him your permission to continue; namely by pulling down the collar of your neckline so your bosom is freely available. But the spot he goes for first is your lips, and he takes your breath away with his hunger, already you’re both sighing together between open-mouthed kisses as he squeezes your waist. But he moves on, he wants more, he goes for your throat as you gasp, he licks and kisses at your pulse point, and his white whiskers tickle, and you giggle and wiggle beneath his weight that’s pinning you down. Your laughter only motivates him to kiss your neck some more; featherlight brushes up and down, slowly, leisurely zigzagging between your collarbone, your jaw, a brief, playful little nip on your jugular.

Eventually his lips linger in one spot, right at the crook in your neck, but you won’t notice until tomorrow morning that he’s giving you a hickey because his hands make their move. His blue-stained calluses paw and knead at your soft, yielding breasts and the difference between them could not be more stark. And your breathing slows, he massages them, stimulates them, gets their blood flowing, and sure enough their pink rosebud-like crowns stand on end. Finally he has to abandon your neck, and gently flicks one with his tongue a few times before taking it into his mouth. A few tugs and suckles to the sensitive little thing, and he switches to the other, this time rolling in between his thumb and forefinger and giving it a quick, firm pinch, and as if to apologize he lets it go and kisses it, the juxtaposition between ‘dry and rough’ and ‘wet and smooth’ making you gasp.

You lose track of time as he goes back and forth. Sometimes your tongues share a dance, sometimes he fondles you and sometimes he just lets you know with a well-placed swivel of his hips how desperately he wants you.

And _gods yes you’re ready for him_ , as you impatiently hook your legs around his waist, and grind against the hardness still hidden under his trousers. A wicked little thought comes to you, and you pull him down by his shoulders, so his ear is against your lips, and you make a joking, overdone inquiry asking if he had a wrench in his pocket.

The look he gives you is so withering but so worth it, and you’re pretty sure you just ruined any chance he was going to be gentle with you. He shakes his head and curses, and stands up at full height; you feign an apologetic pout, and he smirks again. And then, as if you weigh nothing, he rolls you over and pins you down with his own weight, and the press of his chest against your back as he bursts into a hearty laugh can’t help but be infectious. He releases you from the hug with a peck to the back of your head and shifts away again.

Staying in that position, laying on your stomach, you allow yourself a moment to be pleased with yourself that he’s focused on you now and he was allowing himself this moment for pleasure. You close your eyes, and and shiver as his fingers press into your exposed folds. And he dips deeper in with two fingers, just to make certain that you’re ready.

His dexterous digits withdraw, and after a brief pause of rustling cloth they’re swiftly replaced with a familiar, warm member, entering you with a practiced, fluid motion with such ease that you both shudder. It only took a short time for you to build up a rhythm, with your bodies clapping together. All the while, his weathered, ceruleum-stained, perfect hands run over you, appreciating and devotional. Over your backside, along your spinal column, following the wings of your shoulders, running up your arms until those magnificent hands clasped protectively over yours. They’re all you could see as he pistons into you at a rapid, but steady pace, and despite his earlier exertions he doesn’t seem to show any signs of flagging.

Those hands that you love so much, they embody so much of what you adore about him. His passion, his innovation, his determination, his capacity to both create and destroy, to hate and to love. To love, to love…!

You cry out to heaven.


	2. Love Poem (Sayori + Reader; SFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the TRUE best girl.

_It’s not so much that I want to kiss you. I want to relearn vocabulary words from the shape of your mouth. All my poems are yours first._

**_-Yena Sharma Purmasir_ **

 

I tell her I **love** her, I tell her she’s **sweet.** The **sparkle** in her eyes **dazzles** my **heart.** She is my **treasure** , her **laugh** like **music**.

We watch the **sunset** from her room; the **colors** transform the sky to like something out of a **daydream** , like vivid **roses**. I take her hand, lean in close, and kiss her **tears.** For all the **joy** and **calm** she gives to others, her stores run **empty** for herself. She is an **ocean** , and for our entire **childhood,** in all my **memories,** I only ever stood on her shores, only ever saw her **clumsy** waves that slapped the sand, the lazy, carefree ebb and flow of her tides. Never did I see the **dark** , roiling abyss just beneath her surface, like an invisible **tragedy.**

I can’t lie, I was upset when she first told me of her **depression.** Mostly because of how well she hid it. How I couldn’t see through her **sunny** demeanor. But that **shame** at being unable to see all of her made me handle it poorly. I resolved to help her through her **pain,** and remind her of why I care so much for her.

So I **embrace** her, pulling her down onto the **bed,** giving her all the **comfort** I can. I remind her that every day with her is an **adventure.** All the **misfortune** in the world seems to lift away as soon as a single **smile** lights up her face. I whisper to her between kisses, how **special** she is to me, that she’s **extraordinary,** **amazing, wonderful,** and so so **precious.** I whisper it like a **prayer,** a prayer that her **cheer** will one day spread back to herself. There’s still a touch of **sadness** on her face, but she hugs me back, and we just lay there, as **peaceful** twilight gives way to night.

If she needs to **cry,** I’ll provide a good shoulder. If she wants **fun,** I’ll call our **friends** and throw a **party.** If she wants to go on a **vacation,** just the two of us **together,** I’ll plan a **holiday** like we used to do with our **families;** somewhere **warm** and bright, filled with **flowers,** and at night we can **dance** with the **fireflies,** our bodies light as **feathers** and **singing** until she forgets her **grief.** She doesn’t need to be ashamed of the **rainclouds.** But I’ll help her **defeat** them. Open a window and start **flying** up like a **firework,** and blow them away, until she sees the **rainbow** in her sky and realize that she’s not **alone.  
**  
And this poem for her is to let her know how she’s shaped me, and how **lucky** I am to have her in my life. It’s my **promise;** all the **excitement** and **fun** and **happiness** she’s given to me, I’ll pay it back tenfold.


	3. Free to Love (Lyse Hext + Female Warrior of Light; Explicit NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck the haters, man, Lyse is perfect the way she is. And fuck Zenos and his projecting ass.

_ We are the fall of Rome, all fire and fighting. We collapse into each other like the pieces of the Parthenon, kissing like gladiators, loving like rebuilding.  _

**-Caitlyn Siehl**

_ ‘I am not like him. I am not like him. I am not like him!’ _

Your mind plays his words on repeat. You want to be happy, to join the deafening roars of the joyful chorus. They deserve to celebrate this moment they’ve been longing for for so long. You know that, but still…

You hated him with every fiber of your being. You wanted him to pay for his cruelty, for all the suffering he’d caused. You wanted every drop of blood in his body as coin to repay his debt to the world. You wanted revenge for Y’shtola, for Meffrid, for Gosetsu, for Conrad,  _ for Papalymo… _

… And yes, for yourself too. 

And yet by hating him, by becoming stronger to face him on equal ground, you did exactly what he wanted you to do. Became everything he wanted you to be. A rival. A friend. A  _ playmate.  _

_ ‘This is not a game, you demon! I fight to protect my friends, you fight for nothing! I am not a savage, and I am most certainly not your friend! I deny you!  _ **_I deny you!_ ** _ ’ _

The memories of his katana flashing— His final smile— He went to his grave with a peace he didn’t deserve— Storm of angry denials swirling in your head— The noise assaulting your ears— no it’s not noise, let them sing their anthem— But you can’t think like this— godsdammit you’re overstimulated you need to calm down—!

A poke on your shoulder. You look up, and there’s her. She looks a mess, same as you, covered in dried blood and soot. She asks if you need to go inside and rest, and immediately you feel ashamed that she noticed you in distress when everyone was supposed to be celebrating. She asks if you’re hurt, if you need tending to. 

You blink, and look at her. Her earnest, wide blue eyes, brimming with worry for you despite everything. Biting your lip, you don’t know what you want, but you know what you need. 

You need her. 

You throw your arms around her and cleave to her as if she were your sole lifeline in a raging sea. And you whisper to her.

_ ‘I want to feel human again.’ _

 

Racing through the palace against the chaotic river of soldiers running to and fro, your hand interlocking with hers is the only thing keeping you anchored to reality. The world is a blur of red and orange and golden yellow as the setting sun illuminates the stone walls, casting a light on the drying blood and you’re dizzy all over again. Your adrenaline high had reached its arc and sent you plummeting back to the earth with the other mortals. 

You only come back into full awareness when you collapse onto a bed, and she’s stroking the bangs out of your face. The room is darker now, the curtains are drawn. She says you collapsed, and that your hurts were seen to while you were out; you didn’t even realize that several of your lighter wounds had been healed, and the heavier ones had been bandaged. The blisters on your hands from holding onto his scales were gone; the burns from his fire, professionally dressed. And she’s brought you some food and water, you notice with a smile. Despite her occasional thoughtlessness, she always makes it known how much she cares. 

But despite her urging you to rest, you can’t. Despite the aching in your body, the emptiness in your belly, the dryness in your throat, what you wanted— no,  _ needed _ was to feel something. After such a ravaging battle, after facing him, enduring his blows, his words tormenting your mind; your heart sick with fear that he was  _ right  _ about you? Your very soul cried out, begging for a reminder that you are not a monster. 

But there’s her hand, slipping into yours again. You squeeze it for the sensation, not realizing until now your touch starvation. She speaks, she wonders aloud, about him, and why he did what he did; and why he fixated so intensely on you. Remembering the wild, lustful look in his mad eyes makes for a dry, scratchy swallow, and a sip of water soothes the pain. The idea of him feeling some sort of kinship, yearning, or even something that could pass for  _ love  _ towards you was nauseating. Even when his words rang true somewhere within you, they stirred a visceral sense of horror. You didn’t  _ want _ to be understood by him. 

But then you return to reality when she asks,  _ ‘What did he know about you? Did he even call you by your name?’ _

And it’s as if a switch was flipped. He gave no indication that he knew anything about you beyond your titles, your prowess in combat. He never showed any interest apart from that. No, he never called you anything but ‘hero’. He never bothered to know or care a whit about anything else about you.

To the very end, the empty prince’s obsession for a rival was fruitless. His blood stained the flower petals and you were still here. Breathing in, holding her hand. 

You didn’t want to think about him anymore. All you want is to be consumed by her, with all her passion and empathy and love. She looks down to meet your gaze, and you cup her cheek...

The world around you blurs as your lips melt into hers. She’s the only one who can quench your thirst, satisfy your hunger. You whimper into the kiss, as soon as it breaks you beg for more, too starved to care about selfishness. She’s careful as her hands massage you, soothing your aches and loosening your muscles. Her touch, so sweet and loving and gentle that tears well up in your eyes. But the tears are brushed away by her thumb, and the hand lingers on your cheek as she kisses you again. You could kiss her forever, her silken gold locks combed through by your digits, she is purest beauty in every sense of the word, in body and spirit. 

Your breath becomes heavy, and she breaks away to stand at the edge of the bed; she divests you of the rest of your clothing, leaving only the bandages. When you ask to do the same, she’s given pause, and purses her lips. But she trusts you, guiding your path as you slowly unwrap her from her beloved sister’s vestments, and she makes sure to fold them neatly and set them aside. The process, and the touch of sorrow now writ on her formerly hidden face, sobering. 

Nothing for it but to continue on. You hug her from behind, before moving to undo her hair clip and let the sunshine threads spill freely. Softly, your lips plant tender love on her shoulder, her neck, her jaw… 

Together you fall back down onto the bed and your mind drifts away on a blissful cloud as you just kiss. Savoring the silence. The noise doesn’t make it here and the only sound that exists in your world is your voice and hers, heavy breaths, and the tantalizing  _ peck _ of lips on skin. She was all over you, kneading your flesh, palming and practically playing with your breasts. Featherlight fingertips skirted circles around your areolae and a pair of tiny pink nubs rose up to meet them; they in turn were given mischievous pinches and tugs.

Then, when you chance to open your eyes, the first thing you see is a glimmer in hers. She rolls you onto your back, and she moves to push your thighs apart and settle herself between them, licking her lips. 

A faint sensation tickles the spot just above your crevasse, as she kisses your pubic bone. Strong yet delicate hands massage perilously close to your sensitive spots, and the anticipation alone is enough to make you squirm. Her mouth comes to play in your folds, her tongue ignites your nerves, setting your senses alight, and you curl in on yourself, filling your lungs with newly-freed air. She laps at you, presses at all the right spots to make you gasp and squirm, and she holds your waist firmly so she can keep going. 

But as much as you love this feeling, it isn’t what you need. You both almost died so many times, not just today, but through this whole mad adventure. You want her, the one person who’s been with you through it all, to hold you so tight that your bruises still feel real. You cry out for her, and she looks up to answer. And you need to hear your name, with her voice. With her passion and energy and earnest heart. She’s the one you fight for. So you begged for her to hold you.

Only after the briefest moment, a knowing smile crosses her face, and she pulls you up into her lap. Legs tucking over and under each other, one arm bracing your body, another hand dips into you, slickening you up just a little bit more, and she kisses you, your entire world is  _ her, her, her… _

And you crash into each other, again and again, slowly at first, but the wet fire builds as your slits meet and rub together. She moans your name, again and again. You embrace her, clawing at her back, the blood from the battle is dried now, and it gets under your nails along with the soot and dirt. Your bodies were beaten but not broken, and all you and she wanted to know after the savagery of battle, after taking on the brutal empire with all the power in the world and  _ winning, _ was to remember the tenderness of love. And after the battle left you drained and tired, she was there with her love to make you feel whole again. 

She bit her lip in concentration, hugging your leg to her chest and hooking your knee over her shoulder, desperately thrusting her groin against yours. She was wild, riding you hard, until you couldn’t stand it anymore, throwing your head back and crying out in ecstasy, gushing freely, and she was soon to follow, her sweet voice keening and her body writhing until she toppled over, panting and gasping beside you. Both of you are soaked and sweaty and filthy and tired, but it’s fine. You’re fine and you’re free and you love each other and you can do anything.

The monster masquerading as a prince, he insisted, truly believed you and he were kindred spirits. But you denied him, for in all your years, you knew far more than war. And the woman beside you now, she’d only ever brought you joy ever since your paths first crossed. Oh, you clasped your hand in hers and kissed her wrist, sighing in contentment as fatigue overtook you again.

She is your love. Your heart. Your everything.


	4. Loving Glow (Arenvald + Gender Neutral Warrior of Light; SFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of this is a character study on Arenvald Lentinus, and the other part of this is just me writing out my desire to smooch him silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: This chapter does allude to past sexual assault, and the child abuse Arenvald suffered for being the product of said assault. I handled both topics to the best of my ability, but if either of these things upsets you, I would advise against reading this chapter.

_ Show me the parts of you that nobody else ever wanted to sleep with. Show me it all with the lights on. _

**_-Nishat Ahmed_ **

Armor shed and weapons set aside, lantern lights restoring visibility to the dark evening room, it was only the two of you. You and he sat together atop a bed, washing away the accumulated grime of this day's adventure. Dipping an old rag into a basin of warm water, you washed the sweat from his back, scrubbing under the two thin straps of leather that he called an undershirt. He said something, you replied, and you both laughed a little, filling up the silence with easy banter. 

You dipped the rag again and asked him to turn around; he said he can clean his front on his own, but you shook your head. You wanted to. He was bewildered, but he didn’t say anything. You started again. His chest was warm, and his heartbeat fluttered underneath your touch. Slowly, slowly, your hand worked its way up to his neck, and you caressed and kneaded it through the coarse, wet cloth. Your eyes met, and gods above, you’d never seen his sweet yellow-hazel gaze so close before. His cheeks darkened, and he shied away, bowing his head. You didn’t, and you wet the rag again.

You asked if it would be okay to wash his face, and he hesitated for a moment that holds for what feels like decades. And a worry of transgression is what made you draw back. You had never seen him without the white war paint that he'd strategically smeared across his face, and that was quite likely by his design. You softly touched your fingers to his jaw, and he reacts with still more confusion. But despite that, he nodded, and let you wash it off.

And you noticed that he was still tense. The earlier lightness in the room had disappeared, and his hands balled into fists while the paint was scrubbed away, either chipping away with the friction of the cloth or clouding the water droplets that remained behind. And slowly his scars were revealed; dark, jagged lines that never healed properly. Pushing up the bangs out of his forehead, the paint seemed to be thickest just above his brow. As you washed it away, hidden beneath was gnarled tissue focused on a single spot, like a hole had been carved out in his skull. And you couldn’t help it; it looked like it hurt so terribly, and you winced. That only made him look more ashamed, and you apologized, it was through no fault of his own, and asked him if he wanted you to stop. He shook his head, and said you might as well see.

In all your adventures you'd seen more than your fair share of horrible things; but this, this was unique. And deep in your heart was a swelling emotion that you couldn't name and wouldn't dare express. Time did little to heal his scars. They marred him, not in the sense that they rendered him ugly, but in that you knew they ran far deeper than just his face. And this was followed by a rush of both pity and anger. Because as much as you hated to admit it, his mother's reasons for not wanting him, the living reminder of the violent crimes committed against her, were sadly valid. But then came the anger; that still didn't justify what she did to her own son. There was no reason that could ever justify mutilating his face and leaving him to fend for himself; he didn't deserve to be punished for his father's crimes. You couldn't help but wonder if he'd received anything even resembling love or tenderness…

Without thinking, you leaned in and gently lay a kiss upon his face, right where his nose met his cheekbone. And on where his eyebrows knitted together in tenseness. And on his lips. Finally he starts to relax, and kisses you back, but he’s still hesitant. You make up for it, looping your arms around his shoulders and embracing him tight, leaning into him, until your weight pushes him backwards and you’re on top of him on the bed. He breaks the kiss, and he just looks confused now. He just asks, “What are you doing? Why…” Trailing off, he doesn’t need to finish the question because you finish it in your head.

_ ‘Why do you love me?’ _

In his mind, words of love were a double-edged sword. And you had an idea of what sort of phrases would be just another knife digging into his flesh.  _ ‘I’m glad you were born,’  _ you wanted to say, but you knew that the circumstances of his creation weighed heavily on his mind, every day. The very fact that he existed in the first place was living proof of the worst kinds of violence in this world. In his mind, saying that you were glad he was born was tantamount to saying you were glad that his mother suffered so horribly.

You kiss him anyway.

You don’t love the way he was born. You don’t love his past. You love  _ him.  _ The crooked smile he would make as he cracked a joke. His kindness to others, his earnest and easygoing manner. His compassion, not wanting to see others suffer the way he did. Plain and simple enjoying his company; adventures with him were always a delight, and his presence simultaneously kept you grounded and made you feel light and happy. You told him all that and more. 

And you wanted to show him too, but that desire you kept yourself from vocalizing, hoping it would instead come through in the way you ran your hands along his body. You straddled his waist, caressing his broad, warm chest, planting soft kisses along his collarbone, up his neck, on his jaw. But he pulled his head away from you, his brown skin darkening further with blush, quickly asking that you give him a moment to think. And you do so, immediately fearing you overstepped your boundaries again. 

As much as you wanted to take him into you, make love to him until he melted in your grasp, you weren’t sure if he was comfortable. He would have every reason in the world to be uncomfortable with sex. But those reasons shouldn’t be because he thought he didn’t deserve such tenderness. He did. 

But to your surprise, he reaches forward and cups your cheek. You look to him and he smiles at you. And you have an inkling that he understands your mind as much as you understand his. You both hear the other’s Echoing, and the soft, crystal glow of your shared Mother blessed you both. 

And you and he entwined, full of care and love and bathed in the warm, sunset colors of the lantern. And the both of you, your souls were filled with a holy, heavenly light.


	5. Ending in Lavender (Tron + Yori, NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the defeat of the Master Control Program, Tron and Yori return home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this I want to deeply thank the late Brian Daley for his portrayal of Tron in the novelization of the 1982 movie of the same name. Especially the part where he's a lovesick dope who thinks about his wife at least once a picosecond. I ate it up and ran with it for this, because I, too, adore Yori.

**The happy ending to this night: you tug my hair and lightly brush your hand across my lap. Don’t forget how resilient I am and how I would bend for you.**

**-K. Weber**

 

His purpose, his whole reason for being, was to fight. He was written and coded and compiled into existence to be a watchful, resolute guardian. A holy warrior and unstoppable weapon against corruption. And he was proud to be so, always.

But tonight… 

Tonight he could celebrate the liberation of their world. With  _ her _ . 

At long last, after all the long battles and struggles and efforts to put the System to rights, was their homecoming. He carried her, threshold-style, back into the beautiful, crystalline palace of light that they shared, tucking her close against his chest, their circuits gleaming bright like stars. The two were weightless, laughing together, reveling in sweetest joy and relief, in a way they could not do before. Spinning until they collapsed upon a glowing divan, her atop of him.

All the trappings that constrained and separated them: the Grid warrior’s armor, the worker’s attire, and both their helmets, all vanished into the aether. He took a moment of pause, just to look at her in purest adoration. Savoring her presence, drinking her in.  _ She who meant everything to him. _ Even as his faith was what he fought for, she was the one he lived for. Survived for. During what felt like an eternity trapped in the Games, exhausted and struggling, the mere possibility of seeing her again, of returning to her, was what kept him going. His anxieties for her well-being were what sped him on his escape into the City, even as he grieved the friends who couldn’t make it with him. But he found her, restored her to her senses, and she joined him in the fight to free their world. And he would not still be here were it not for her; his partner, his companion, his love… As he cupped her cheeks and cradled her face, he held his whole world. He was hers, and seeing the near-gleeful smile that he treasured with all his being, he knew she was his, too. With soft sighs and closing eyes, the gap between them closed, and lips met. 

She was curious about that little trick she learned, and she was inclined to experiment; how long their lips pressed together, how softly, how deeply. How glad he was to be her test subject. (And she would likely find him far more interesting to test than those lumpy and strangely-scented orange spheres that kept getting digitized.) Her hands were not idle either, going for his nape as she undid his braid, untangling brown and pale-blue hair with her fingers. Relaxing as she combed out his locks to spill freely downwards, he was content to let her take the lead. Despite the dubious circumstances under which she discovered the notion of ‘kissing,’ he could not and would not deny enjoying the act itself… 

… Oh, especially when she kissed him in places  _ besides  _ his mouth. He felt her lips leaving a trail to the wing of his jaw, down his neck, and  _ there, _ that was the spot that made him shudder, his stimulation signalled by the telltale purple flaring in his circuits. Feeling her emboldened smile against him, he made his own move to reciprocate with his hands. Deftly yet firmly, he stroked the circuits where her legs met her hips, leaving another trail of bright violet in the wake of his touch, and he felt her shiver against him. 

But she kept going, rolling to a position where she sat on her knees, straddling his leg. She hummed and nuzzled her forehead into the crook of his neck, as if that were supposed to distract him from her hand traveling downwards from his abdomen. He  _ twitched _ as her featherlight touches reached his groin and he let out a high-pitched noise he’d be embarrassed to let out in front of anyone but her.

… And he should have known that would spur her on further. Her movements increased in pressure and speed, and he had to bite his lip and slow his breathing to keep himself together, even as his body trembled from the intense flow of energy building between them. How pleasurably easy it would have been for him to wholly lose himself in the pleasure, but he didn’t want to be  _ completely _ useless for the rest of the millicycle  _ just _ yet.

Fortunately she gently nudged his fingers downwards to follow the delicate flow of her circuitry. And quickly he was led to where her mirroring lines intersected at the junction of her thighs. He began stroking her there, pressing into her shell, and watched with some satisfaction as her breath caught, the purple glow on her body spreading outward. But she didn’t let up either, and they touched each other until the blush seemed to cover the entirety of both of them. 

Just when he thought he was about to surge, she broke the connection by pushing his hands away from her. He could only let out a breathy noise of confusion before she slowly guided him to lay down, flat on his back. And he  _ shivered,  _ knowing he would never lie prone like this for anyone else. Who would believe it: the legendary hero, showing such a vulnerable side of himself. Because such a sight would be unbelievable to anyone else: the Champion of the User-Believers, his arms pleadingly outstretched towards her, palms raised, whispering her name like a prayer, begging for her… 

And of course, the kind, loving soul that she was, she obliged him with a smile. Straddling his hips before lifting her hands to his, the briefest moment passing when a new glow erupted in the space between their hands, flashes of static jumping between their fingertips. Their palms drew together, then touched, sending a shock through both of them that made the bonded pair gasp in unison as their fingers slowly laced together and their ‘interfacing’ truly began. Energy was exchanged between them, moving through the connection point in their hands before spreading through to warm and stimulate and arouse the rest of their bodies. At first as a slow trickle, and then the flow steadily began to build up speed as they moved with each other. 

The rush of tingling, the heat of motion, each one’s essence flooding the other’s thoughts, their very beings, and they became one. Hands squeezed together tight, gasps and moans both quiet and loud filling their bright, tiny little corner of the world. Their senses blurred together in bliss, but the feeling of their hands intertwined persisted, and he drew her fingers to his lips, kissing them gently. He noticed her eyes blinking, fluttering open at the external sensation. Their gazes met and held for a moment before she leaned down to him, rested her forehead against his, and then she kissed him again, all hot breath and passion and soft lips and her, and  _ oh Users above he couldn't take it anymore--! _

The power surge consumed them both in a wave of electric ecstasy; they cried out in unison and clasped tight to each other as their joined circuits and everything else around them flashed bright and hot like a solar flare. The brightness of their embrace, of their home, of her, all seared his vision but still he drank it in. The sight of his love, the touch of her hands, the joy and relief that he could feel in her heart… 

… Well, he thought as the surge between them slowed back down and left them panting and disheveled, now was as good a time as any to tell her how dear she was to him. He had meant to do so earlier when they reunited at the citadel, before their first kiss made him lose his line of thought. But now as she lay down, resting her head and hand on his chest, he hugged her close and murmured words of love and doting to her. Telling how being with her, seeing her safe and happy, had made every one of his struggles worth it.

She squirmed a little bit in embarrassment, noting that he didn’t need to say so out loud. He knew, he said, but he wanted to. And her response was to poke him in just the right spot on his still-purple circuits, in just the right way that made  _ him _ wiggle and make a high-pitched, very much un-warrior-like laughing noise. Tickling him a few more times just to make her point, she leaned up to kiss his cheek and nuzzle into the crook of his neck.

With a happy, breathless sigh, he reclined back onto the divan, endlessly grateful for this peace. This ‘happy ending.’ He was written into this world to fight Master Control's corruption, and having succeeded that, he had every intention of keeping this System safe.

… But first, they rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Then they lived happily ever after and nothing bad happened ever again.


End file.
